


The Battle of Grassy Vale

by TomSevenstrings



Category: A Song of Ice and Fire - George R. R. Martin, Game of Thrones (TV)
Genre: AU, Alternate Universe - Rhaegar Won, Death, F/M, Jon and Dany carry the torch, Minor Original Character(s), One Shot, Original Character(s), R Plus L Equals J, War, but he died, dragonfire
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-05-18
Updated: 2018-05-18
Packaged: 2019-05-08 15:59:31
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,412
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/14697525
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/TomSevenstrings/pseuds/TomSevenstrings
Summary: [AU/ONE SHOT] Prince Jon Targaryen leads an attack against the Kingslayer on the fields beyond the village of Grassy Vale. A story told in medias res, through the eyes of the common soldier.





	The Battle of Grassy Vale

**Author's Note:**

> In order to get back into the jist of writing, I thought I'd do some one shot's in the world of ASOIAF. This story presents an alternate setting already very much 'in progress', and I focused little on development and more on action. I will answer any questions some of you might have but won't delve too deply into the lore what have you. 
> 
> This was for fun. A battle between some of the series' most popular characters, yet seen through the eyes of their soldiers.

**STEFFON**

“Fire and blood!” Steffon cried as he charged.

Those who raced beside him took up the call. A wave of screaming steel and spears and horses. Steffon kept his lance tipped steadily, teeth chattering with every gallop. A six-foot shaft of ash, the tip glistened deadly in the sunlight.

Across the field, the Lannister army rushed to form its lines. Spears gathered at the front, cavalry mustering to the flanks. They had not expected a charge, nor had they known for certain that the prince had brought such an army with him from the Marches.

Steffon spied the Kingslayer dashing down the front upon his white steed, blaring commands. Who could miss him with that poncey golden plate he donned for every fight. _Rather I fight the Kingslayer than an army under the command of Tywin Lannister_. If there was any man Steffon would have feared to chance on a battlefield, it would be the father, not the crippled son.

He begun the countdown in his head as the distance closed, let the stomp of hooves find rhythm with his heart. Through his gloves Steffon felt the comforting burn of the reins against his palm. _Keep steady._

Grey boulders leapt overhead and dashed violently into Lannister’s formation. The last few volleys fired from the catapults they had stationed within the village of Grassy Vale. Steffon let out a cheer as the stones whistled above, the noise blanketed by his helm. Three boulders went diving into empty graves while two found their mark, crushing Lannister soldiers in cold silence.

Then they were close enough that Steffon could see the lion-crested helms shining gold, the small chinks and scratches staining the enamel. His brothers roared again. The impact was so near Steffon could feel the jarring settling in his bones.

Somewhere behind a horn blew. Steffon held his breath and tensed his body as the final paces were closed.

Blue eyes stared back at him from the end of his lance, so full of fear. _A mistake._ As they crashed together, Steffon lunged forward and buried steel through visor. Blood leapt through the man’s eye slits like red tears.

Steffon kept on, snapping the reins and yanking his lance. Yet the point was wedged deep and the shaft snapped as his horse leapt over the body, shooting a mess of splinters in every direction. Slowing, he buried the broken ash into the exposed flesh of a neck, then spun and trampled away from a lance aimed for his head.

The battle raged. Horses toppled from the momentum and sent their rider flailing six feet into the air, spears _cracked_ and men screamed. Steffon faced three lions with their spears tipped towards him, before a lance whistled through the air and took one in the chest. Blood burst forth and so did Steffon, kicking his horse into motion, and as the others charged him they were smashed by an oncoming rider and toppled to the ground.

Lannister’s were falling back and dying with every breath. Steffon freed his sword from the scabbard. The next spear aimed his way, he ducked and in a wild slash severed the shaft in two, then buried his sword through the golden lion embroidered on the attacker’s chest.

The lion wheezed as he died. Steffon kicked the corpse aside and glanced either side of him. Engagements all along the line, yet no signs of the Lannister cavalry. _Had they retreated?_ There was little time to think before the next fight was on him. Steffon dug his heels and bounced forward.

An arrow zipped through the air and rattled his shield. Then another. Steffon spun his horse to face the archers downfield, slashing either side of him. _We need to reach them._

The horn sounded again. Steffon grinned. A lion swung at him with an axe. His shield took the brunt of it, cracking. Steffon swung his horse about and came around in a long arc, severing hands from wrists in a cloud of blood, leaving the axe buried deep in his shield.

The three-headed dragon of House Targaryen flapped from a dozen standards as they made their push. A sigil Steffon bore upon his own chest, one to be feared.

Steffon lead the charge on the western front, grabbing a spear poking from up from the field of corpses. Riders rallied behind him as he rushed toward the exposed corner of Lannister archers. They began to knock their bows for another volley. Steffon gave his horse its head and charged.

The air reeked of blood and steel. He poised his spear to strike, once the archers were broken, the rest of the-

The world became a spinning blur beyond his visor.

His horse crashed over itself as if smashing some unseen wall. Falling, Steffon glimpsed a black arrow poking from the beast’s neck. Then he saw nothing. The mud smashed against him. Blood filled his mouth as he bit down hard on his tongue.

As he arched in pain hooves slammed down against his back, pressing him further into the dirt and blood. His world was black and full of the terrible cries of war.

Wincing, Steffon flipped onto his back and grabbed his helm, forcing it off his head. The steel was dinted and wretched. He threw it aside, tensed away the numbness in his arms and legs, then grabbed his longsword and buried it through the back of the nearest Lannister soldier he could find.

The sword burst through the lion’s belly like a snake.

“Here!”

Steffon recoiled and followed the voice, reaching for the hand of a fallen soldier donned in Targaryen livery.

He began to pull, but before he could get the man back on his feet, Steffon dropped him to get his blade in the way of a strike aimed for his head. His whole body rattled from the blow. He was weaker after the fall. _Damn that horse._

Steffon put his weight back onto his heel, then pushed through his sword with all his strength. They plummeted together into the dirt and landed atop a crimson cloak set across a corpse.

Steffon’s sword flew out of reach. The lion groped for his neck with one hand and brought his blade up with the other. Steffon caught the hand with his teeth, and bit down hard. Grabbing the man’s own shield, Steffon then bashed away the sword and buried the iron oak into the brittle bones of the man’s wrist.

Blood filled his mouth and terror filled his opponent’s eyes. The highborn heirs never expected war to be like this. _Dirty._ But Steffon was no highborn, and he was so accustomed to the blood and shit and gore perchance he’d even started to like it.

When he felt the _crunch_ between his teeth, Steffon spat the man’s own fingers back into his eyes. As he screamed, Steffon buried the point of his shield with both hands into his open mouth.

After the fourth blow, he was still. 

Steffon found his sword then climbed back to his feet, groaning. He was one of the few living left amongst the dead, dying and the stragglers as the thick of the battle pushed forward, lead by those still upon their horses. He searched the field for Prince Jon himself, but the Black Dragon’s shining dark armour was not amongst the riders.

The Lannister’s had lost too much ground. The battle would soon be over, he was sure of it. _They’re done._

_Aaaaaahooooooooooooooooooo_

Steffon stopped. The signal was not one of theirs. Heart racing, he spun to look back towards the mound of the hill where the rest of their army stood. Messengers ran to carry notes between the lines, but the reserve was still.

_Aaaaaahooooooooooooooooooo_

It was then he spotted a star rising over the hill to the west. Above it flapped the golden lion of House Lannister roaring in its fury.

The sun passed behind a cloud and the shine faded to reveal the Kingslayer charging towards the field… with the Lannister cavalry at his back.  

 

**WILLAS**

“Your Grace,” Ser Richard Lonmouth bowed his head before the prince, “the Kingslayer feigned a retreat. Their heavy horses surrounds-“

“I can see that.” Jon silenced him. For only seven-and-ten, the lad could speak with an iron tone. _A useful trait amongst princes,_ Willas knew.

Silence lingered as they watched the battle downfield. Willas felt the fire churning in his stomach as gilded Lannister swords struck down the standards of House Targaryen. In times like these he missed being in the thick of the battle, but guarding the young prince was all the honour a simple man like he could’ve wished for.

Ser Arthur Dayne and Oswell Whent had already strode forth the moment they spied Jamie Lannister flanking over the hill. The two knights lead what was left of the reserve to try and repel the ambush. Even from such a distance, the white of their enamelled scales glowed amongst the ranks as they fought.  

They had vouched to join the battle in spite of the prince’s wish to lead the force himself. Though his place was beside His Grace, Willas was itching to join them too. They all were.

“Sound a retreat,” Jon said, shaking his head. His pale crimson cloak brushed the back of his boots. Red for the red of his House.

“Your Grace,” Lonmouth stepped forward, “we cannot.”

“We can.” Jon said, bolder this time. “I have seen enough of my men die whilst I do nothing. Sound the retreat.”

Though the words evoked fear, Willas knew what was coming. He knew not whether to laugh or cry.

Prince Jon gave one final look over his shoulder at the men below before he said, “I did not want it… but I must show the Lannister’s the meaning of our words.”

 _Daenerys did not want it, he means_. The princess held a soft spot for the Kingslayer, from their years together in King’s Landing, and all the Seven Kingdoms knew of the soft spot the prince held for Daenerys.

Yet even the memory of a lover’s promise wanes in the presence of watching men die under your command. Willas felt no shame for lad. The prince’s squire supplied his dragon-crested helm. Envoys were running back and forth, and before long the low wail of retreat rattled over the field.

“Be careful, Your Grace,” Willas warned as Jon mounted his horse. The prince gave a nod then started back to the village.

Willas grabbed his spear and watched the retreat. Dayne was leading the break back towards the hill. With Dawn in hand, the knight was near unstoppable. It was slow, but sure enough the fight began to break. Willas could only wish their men got away far enough before it started. 

 

**ADDAM**

“They’re running!” Addam roared for all who cared to listen. He watched the enemy retreating with a smile upon his face. Aye, he was a man that knew how to laugh. Deep and from the bottom of his gut. He dropped his helmet to make sure they would hear him bellowing at the sight of it.

Blood leaked from a wound on his arm, but Addam felt no pain. He was alive, and that was all that mattered. He searched the field for Ser Jaime, eager for a signal to charge after them and end the Black Dragon’s little rebellion for good and all. Mayhaps he would even be the one to bury his spear through the chest of Arthur Dayne, or the would-be prince himself.

The Gods had favoured them this day. Addam re-joined the call, hailing through broken teeth. “Craven bastards!” He spat upon the dirt they had littered with the blood of his friends. The men beside him raised their swords and cheered. Soon the signal would blow, and the hunt would begin. Addam put his helm back over his head and grabbed his spear.

Then there was a _sound_.

Like the sky itself had come alive and joined the call. A foul, monstrous thunderclap. Addam’s breath died in his throat. All around him, terror rose.

Once more the clouds shattered. The wretched cry shook him to core. Men looked around for answers, mouths agape. _No, it can’t be…_

The dragon burst through the clouds.

Someone cried off in the distance. A child? Addam dropped his spear and found he could not move. This could not be, surely it was a… a dream, some seventh hell, a trickery of the mind.

Piss ran down his leg in a warm stream as the shadow approached. The dragon stretched forty feet from tip to tip, and its deep green scales glimmered in the sunlight. Addam glimpsed the long black teeth as the beast opened its mouth, and the fire came pouring out.

The inferno rolled into their formation like burning water, twenty feet from where Addam watched. A living beast with gaping yellow hands that consumed one man after another.

Horses threw their riders and fled, leaving them for dead. Chaos followed. The dying rolled and boiled in flames veined with green, sizzling in their armour. Death should never have been so startingly beautiful. 

Before the first plume had even settled, the dragon was turning to take another run. Addam felt death’s hands upon his shoulders. Frozen. The Black Dragon swept down upon his beast, from the west like Ser Jaime had when victory had been theirs, and let forth a breath of flame that stretched fifty metres, burning rapidly across the field.

 _Cutting off the retreat._ Addam did not bother to run. There was no use. How could they win? Desperate men tried to weather flames and died in their armour before they brokethrough the other side. Ser Jaime Lannister was leading a force to the far end of the blaze to flee, but surely he would never make it.

A warhorn sounded, or was it the dragon? Addam turned and found the Targaryen army advancing again. Their heavy horse reformed, they swept over any man daring enough to run _towards_ them in retreat.

Better to die by the sword than dragonfire. The war was lost. Rumour was that the girl Daenerys had three dragon’s she had hatched from some eastern merchant. No man was foolish enough to have believed it.

But the lie was staring him in the face. Diving from the clouds, fire rumbling within its belly, Addam stared into the dragon’s eye as it came to claim him.

**Author's Note:**

> Thanks for reading! I find writing battle's the most fun but often the most difficult to do, so this was a benefit towards me shaking off some rust. Any feedback is appreciated!


End file.
